The Avion My Uncle Flew (9 page)

Now mon oncle explained how the English and French sort of mixed up after centuries. By and by, they became one people. Instead of part of them speaking in French and part of them speaking in this older English language, the two languages joined together. That was why today about one third of the words we use were French words. I've told you what a proud little fellow mon oncle was; and he took pride in the fact that Americans spoke a lot of French without knowing they were speaking French. Maybe he exaggerated telling me that, I don't know. I don't think he did. My mother says he didn't. But the fact is, he went on, making his speech and talking and pretty soon the jars and jolts of the train sort of faded away. The noise of the wheels going “Jean va, Jean va” died away and didn't bother me. I was cross and tired and lonesome and my leg hurt and I was disappointed about his avion being nothing more than a glider. I didn't mean to go to sleep at all. I didn't think I ever would sleep until I was back with my mother and father. But do you know, I went to sleep.

When I woke up we were plowing through green montagnes. It was jour, instead of nuit. The morning sun was shining. Mon oncle's big shabby coat was covering me and I had my seat all to myself. Opposite me were mon oncle and a red-cheeked old French woman and a tall dignified Frenchman about sixty years old and two younger Frenchmen, each with perfectly enormous black moustaches. There they were, all five of them crowded together on a seat hardly large enough for four; and all five of them were looking at me—and they were smiling. I don't know what mon oncle had said to them. I do know, such kindness from four perfect strangers gave me a queer warm feeling.

The red-cheeked woman said, “Bon jour,” and I replied. All the men laughed and I sat up in a hurry. The old man and one of the younger men moved over to my side, taking care not to upset my crutches. Mon oncle brought out what was left of the black bread and the sausage. The red-cheeked woman had a basket and in the basket were a couple of peaches, as well as more bread. She insisted I have a peach. You know, the night before I'd never thought I could eat black bread and sausage.

This morning, I found I was so almighty hungry that the black bread and sausage tasted even better than any breakfast I'd ever had on the ranch. I ate every bit. I ate the peach, too. It was juicy and sweet. The French people talked. Mon oncle talked and now and then they'd say something to me I could understand, like “Le jour est beau?” or “La pêche est bonne, hein?” (By myself I wouldn't have known what “pêche” meant, but the woman pointed to the peach.) Once, when the red-cheeked woman asked, “Tu vas à St. Chamant, le village de St. Chamant?” I worked that one out, getting the “tu vas” to mean “you go” and that “à” as “to;” and I answered, “Oui, Jean va à St. Chamant.”

Mon oncle seemed to be pleased that I replied. I could see now that French words that meant the same thing sometimes changed a little just as we say “I go” and “he goes.” Both the “go” and the “goes” mean the identical thing; and, I guess the French must have copied from us. Or, perhaps, if what mon oncle said was true, we copied from them. Anyway, “Jean va” was “John goes;” and that “tu vas” was “you go.” I remembered how, back in New York, I'd been practically paralyzed at the thought of being in a place where I wouldn't understand a word said. Now I was in that place—and it wasn't nearly as difficult as I imagined. I recognized you can be scared a lot more by something before you come on to it than after it's in front of you.

The red-cheeked woman wrapped the remainder of her bread in a checkered cloth. I got to wondering what the word for bread was in French. I remembered how mon oncle had said “what is” and decided to try it out and see if it worked. I pointed to the bread and asked, “Qu'est-ce que c'est que—?”

“Ah,” said the red-cheeked woman right away. “C'est le pain.”

“Le pain?” said I, thinking that was a queer thing to call bread.

“Oui,” said the woman. “Le pain.”

And there it was. I'd learned what le pain was. More than that, I found, with that “qu'est-ce que c'est que—” business, I had a key with which I could fathom out other French words without asking for help from mon oncle.…

That morning about nine o'clock we changed a second time at a city called Tulle. We were right in the mountains now. We waited at a long gray stone railroad station for our next train. While we were waiting two French policemen walked by with a short, thick, sullen-looking man between them, unshaven and grimy, with a wild furious glare in his eyes. He was chained to one of the police and the other kept his hand near his revolver. As they walked by, several French women made frightened noises. Men in the crowd started talking and pointing and there were angry shouts. A couple of boys ran after them, carrying stones in their hands. The policemen threatened the boys and the boys waited, while the prisoner was shoved into a big blue car and carried away.

I'd never seen people yell at a prisoner before. It seemed wicked. All my sympathies were for the prisoner. I asked mon oncle, “What's the matter? What are they yelling at him for?”

Mon oncle hesitated. “Because he is a German.”

“German?” I said. “I thought all the Germans had been captured.”

“Not all,” said mon oncle. “When the war ended, a few ran away and hid in these mountains instead of giving themselves up. They have caused the country people much trouble by appearing suddenly at night and stealing and—” Once again, he hesitated. “And killing some of our people, too, I am afraid. They are very bad, mon neveu. Very bad.”

I hadn't realized Germans were still around here. I asked if many remained.

He smiled. “Ah, but Jean, it is nothing. They will not molest you. Only a few remain and soon they will be found.”

I stuck my crutches under my arms and slowly followed mon oncle along the station platform. Behind us lifted the towers and the buildings of the old city of Tulle. It was located in an oval valley in between the dark montagnes, and was different from any of the cities we have back home. The buildings were of stone, mostly, high and narrow, with small windows. The streets were paved with cobblestones or with big rough bricks. I saw the automobile carrying the German go up a long street.

I was glad they'd caught the German. It wasn't right for Germans like him to hide out in the montagnes and cause trouble and become no more than robbers or bandits. Seeing the prisoner reminded me of something. I asked mon oncle, “Do you think by now they've caught Albert to question him?”

“I zink so. Oui.”

I asked, “I don't suppose you could make sure?”

He nodded. “Oui, if you wish. When we reach St. Chamant I will write to my friends of the police in Paris, but you must not worry. The police will assuredly have caught Albert by now. Pouf!” He snapped his fingers. “They have him fast and in a few days we shall learn the truth.”

We didn't have time to see much of Tulle because our train arrived. The engine was about the size of a switch engine back home. It had an enormous funnel and puffed out clouds of black smoke. Mon oncle explained this was a little montagne train. The engine probably was fifty or sixty years old. Behind it were four cars only, all small and old. Mon oncle helped me climb upon the rear car. He followed, carrying our bags. In ten or fifteen minutes the whistle tooted. We started chugging up into the montagnes. These were real montagnes, nothing like those we had come through earlier in the morning.

We wound around curves. We pushed up higher and higher. The sun was warm and bright. The montagnes were covered with oak and chestnut trees and every now and then we'd cross a shaky trestle and see for miles below into valleys, dark green. I had the strange feeling I was being taken years and years back into history, into the time of my grandfather. The people who got on the train wore old-fashioned clothes. Most of them had wooden shoes. They'd go for a few stops and get off again. One girl had a small pig under her arm. In a basket, a woman was carrying a live duck.

The houses we passed weren't like houses I'd ever seen before. They nestled down into the trees, and were of stone and had thatched roofs—roofs of woven straw and hay. Mon oncle became more and more excited. Every few minutes he'd look at his watch. Finally he said, “Voici le village de St. Chamant!” The train halted. Here we were.

I don't know what I was expecting but whatever it was—it wasn't at all like what I found. Le village de St. Chamant was located on the side of a huge montagne and consisted of about twenty or thirty houses on each side of a single road, with the small brick railroad station about one fifth of a mile to the south of this road. Waiting at this little station was a sort of reception committee, composed of three men and one woman.

While the train halted, mon oncle threw out the bags and the men caught the bags. I was awkward with my crutches. Mon oncle never once helped me, either. He got down—and he waited. And so did the men and the woman. They didn't say a word; they were grave and composed, as if it was the most usual thing in the world for them to see a strange boy trying to get off a train with two crutches under his arms.

Right after that, the woman and two of the three men gathered around mon oncle. Instead of shaking his hand they kissed him on the cheek as was the French custom.

The third man hung back, scowling. He approached mon oncle and took him off to one side, talking to him in a loud angry tone. Mon oncle merely shook his head, speaking briefly, cold and polite. After that, the third man lifted his hat about one inch above his pink bald head, disdainfully said, “Bon jour!” and marched off. He wore real leather shoes and a black coat with black braid on it and he had gray gloves on his hands, although the jour was warm.

Mon oncle nudged me. “You see? C'est le maire, Monsieur Capedulocque, whom I told you about. I zink he is angry I have come.”

He introduced me to Madame Graffoulier, a tall angular woman with kind eyes, who owned the hotel where we were to stay. After her, I was greeted—French style, always, being kissed on the cheeks—by Monsieur Niort, the blacksmith. He was wide as a barrel and when he laughed it sounded like thunder. The second man was Dr. Guereton, the local physician, gray and small and cheerful.

When he finished greeting me, same as the others, he peered over his spectacles at mon oncle and said, “C'est un bon garçon, ton neveu.” It was nice of him to say that, which meant: “It's a good boy, that nephew”—or as we'd say it, “He's a good lad, that nephew of yours.”

As I used my crutches, mon oncle Paul assisted me along. We reached the main street—the only street, for that matter. We marched down this street until we came to a crossroad, which came south from the meadows and led around an old stone church and north toward the montagnes. Next to the church was the biggest house in town. It had a fair-sized whitewashed tower in front, and a wall around the whole place. Inside were more whitewashed buildings with a lot of chickens and ducks squawking and goats bleating away. Mon oncle pointed to it; he said it was the house belonging to Monsieur Capedulocque, the mayor whom I'd just met. He explained in France farm people lived differently than he understood we did in America.

He said this village was composed of farmers—that is, people who owned vineyards and little fields in the mountains. While a few people lived on these fields, most of them moved into a village to be close to each other, and kept their animals within the courtyards. Often, the animals would live downstairs in the same house while the people lived upstairs. That was hard to believe. I laughed. I thought mon oncle was joking. But it was an actual fact—because later I saw homes with donkeys and goats on the downstairs floor and the family comfortable as anything, living upstairs. They claimed that was the only civilized way, too. They said if they wanted fresh milk all they had to do was step downstairs and a goat would give them all that was required. It saved time. It was efficient. That may be true, but the French method increases the variety of smells in a house.

We continued down the street. For the most part the houses were of two stories, of stone and plaster, with a crisscross of timbers on the upper floors. Shutters would open. Men or women would stick out their heads and call, “Ah, Paul. Bon jour, Paul!” and he'd call back to them. All of this had a strangeness to me. Perhaps it was because I was almighty tired after using my crutches for such a distance—although, of course, it wasn't really very far. But I wasn't accustomed to going even part of a mile on my own, remember. It was like being in a dream, with the wet mist coming down and separating everything from me.

We came to a building longer than the other buildings, of three stories, all of stone and plaster, with green shutters over the windows. None of the buildings had porches or any decorations as buildings back home had. They came square up against the road, with absolutely plain bare fronts except for the shutters. This big building was like all the others in St. Chamant, plain and bare and simple in front. You'd have taken it for a poor mean miserable stone barn back home. Above the doorway was a sign: “Hôtel du Commerce.”

This was the hotel belonging to Madame Graffoulier. She was about fifty, I'd guess; her husband, I later learned, had been killed in the war. Paul had made arrangements for us to stay here. We entered the hotel and it was more like stepping inside a barn than in what I'd call a hotel. The big front room was right off the street, and for a floor—they had
brick
. True, the brick was swept clean and had been waxed. But still—a brick floor! In this room were long wooden tables and chairs and that was about all.

Waiting for us were two kids, a boy about seven and a girl of five or six. Both of them were dressed in the blue smocks all French children seem to wear, boy or girl. Shyly, they came forward. Mon oncle said they were Philippe and Jehanne, the nephew and niece of Madame Graffoulier. I looked around hoping there might be a boy at hand, near my age—but there wasn't.